Bitter Blush

is a platform that strives to create an open community to discuss topics that traditionally make us **blushhh. Our mission is to shed light on issues that are kept in the dark, as a way to harness a safer and more trusting environment.

Sep 29

Sep 29 Today, I Was Fat

Today, I needed to get out of bed. Post-graduate life has presented fewchallenges for me as an unemployed dependent. Responsibilities are few and farbetween. I wake up. Check Instagram. Check Grindr. Check my e-mails. Check to seeif my father is still in bed and then I mozy back to mine. I have convinced myself,somehow, that this life is a necessary one after completing eight years of rigorouseducation. But today I needed to get out of bed.

Today, I looked at my body. I traveled from my collarbone to my chest – amass of fatty tissue that developed early in my life. Then to my stomach, theplayground of many French fries and chicken tenders – the epicenter of my self-loathing. I continued down, past my penis – a humble boy – to my thighs. I stopped. Iremembered my mother’s words from Friday night – “Oh, he think he cute now thathis thighs are gettin’ all skinny.” I stared at my thighs, a deposit for much of mybody’s fat. I screamed at the cellulite. I considered bleaching the dark spots betweenmy thighs. I dried the summer’s sweat. And embraced the coolness of fall. I movedon. There was nothing left to see. My mirror doesn’t afford me the privilege toadmire my strong calves. I’m starting to feel that it’s intentional.

Today, I boarded a train – the 3 train. I remembered that rush hour is notkind to fat people. Our bodies require space, though we are often robbed of it. Ourbodies oppressed by scoffs and rolled eyes as petite girls squeeze past our rolls tocreate their own space. Our bodies acknowledge how lucky she is to squeezethrough our fat – not only because she is unaware of the luxury her small framepermits but also because she should feel blessed to touch us. She cannot imagine thesoftness of our bodies but only feel the essence of them.I always sit at the end of the row, next to the train doors. I have more space.My body can spread as it pleases with little contest from other train riders. And thenI remembered that it’s rush hour. As the train approached 96 th street my bodyreacted accordingly. My thighs closed in apology. My shoulders shrunk in shame. Myknees pressed against each other. My eyes drifted to the floor. I was prepared torelinquish the space I promised my body could inhabit. A woman approached me –she’s black so I know that she is not afraid to sit next to me anyway. Another womanapproached. She saw the small space between my neighbors’ thighs and mine. Sheconsidered her options. She refused the call to action. I breathe – so does myneighbor.That uninhabited space reminded me of my promise to my body – I promiseto give you space. You have earned it after years of skipping meals, crying into yourpillow, denying yourself pleasure, squeezing into the parameters of a box created bypeople you don’t know (but don’t you).

Today I gave myself space – space to breathe and unlearn the traumas of fatshaming. A shame felt from generations of degradation. I touched myself and feltfree – if not for a moment hopefully for a lifetime. I imagined a life affirmed bycultural representations of my body as desired. I imagined that world as existing.Does it?

And now, I sit across from a sea of gay, white men sprinting along the HudsonPier toward a life of physical perfection. I wonder if they see me – probably not.